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Wiltonswas overrun with American and Canadian museum curators, all divided into opposing camps. Sarah shook the hand of the Austrian-born director of the Met, then shouldered her way to the bar, where she endured a wait of ten minutes for her martini. The cocktail-party din was so deafening that for a moment she didn’t realize her phone was ringing. It was Oliver calling from his mobile.
“Are you in this madhouse somewhere?” she asked.
“Change in plan, I’m afraid. We’ll have to do it another time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Yes, tomorrow evening would be fine. Cordelia will call you in the morning and make the arrangements.”
And with that, the call went dead.
Sarah quickly dialed Gabriel. “I could be wrong,” she said, “but I believe our girl just made her next move.”
